


Strip Poker

by amber2483



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fun, One Shot, Smut, Strip Poker, wow that escalated quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:33:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2364446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amber2483/pseuds/amber2483
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A harmless suggestion at a game of cards turns into so much more..</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strip Poker

She should’ve known an hour ago that this wasn't a smart idea; hell, should’ve known two cups into Bushmills that this was a horrible idea.

But the thrum of the whiskey flowing through her veins, and the slight giddy haze of her mind seemed to of convinced her otherwise.

Abbie peers at Crane’s face, studying it from beneath her lashes. His expression is thoughtful as he focuses on the cards in his hands, before he meets her gaze and his face smooths into something unreadable with the exception of a small lift of a brow.

“Your move, Lieutenant.”

The rumble of his voice, smooth and silky as the whiskey flowing through her veins, brings Abbie out of her daze.

She looks at the cards in her hand again, without really seeing, and musters up enough confidence to just go with the hand she’s dealt. She refuses to lose; she _can’t_ lose.

“I call,” Abbie murmurs as she lays down her two pair, Aces and Tens with a decent kicker and she knows she’s got this because _come on._

Ichabod’s expression is still blank, but his mouth twists a bit and she knows she’s won this round, just knows it –

Until his blank expression turns perplexed and the eyebrow is back.

His fingers are dexterous as they lay the cards down on the table in a sweeping, noble manner and Abbie almost chokes.

“Now correct me if I’m wrong, Lieutenant, but it would seem that five of the same suit would trump your two pair, would it not?”

It almost sounds innocent; would seem innocent, in fact, if he hadn’t had the audacity to blink those blue eyes at her in a doe like manner.

Abbie stiffens as she assesses the flush laid out in front of her and sucks in a breath until it becomes a low hiss between her teeth.

She leans back against her chair and tilts her head at him, “You’re a liar.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” Abbie licks her lips and shakes her head. “You’re a card shark.”

“I assure you, Lieutenant, that I have no idea what you’re referring to by calling me that.”

“’Oh, Lieutenant,’” Abbie draws the words out in an exaggerated British accent, “’I’ve never played poker before. I must warn you that I will most assuredly be the most awful player. Poppycock. Scones. Blah blah Tea.” and her accent has turned mangled and over the top, but he deserves it because really, _fuck him._

Ichabod has the nerve to look affronted at this but not before the corners of his mouth lift in something resembling a smile and he just manages to shrug. “I simply catch on, that’s all.” Ichabod reassures her. “I’m a fast learner. It’s not as though a game of cards was something foreign in my time. In fact we had quite a few games to play as forms of entertainment; there’s vingt et un and whist —”

“And poker, apparently.” Abbie bites back and gives him a withering look.

Ichabod spreads his palms out in front of him and Abbie swallows a growl at his cocky look. “As it stands, you seem to have lost this round.”

“You’re an ass.” Abbie snaps.

“And you’re still wearing one more article of clothing than you’re supposed to be, Lieutenant. If you’re so bent on getting revenge I advise you choose which one you’ll lose and we can get started on the next round.”

Abbie ignores the feel of the way her stomach drops at those words. How the soft command of his tone seems to make her mouth dry and other areas not.

She grabs her glass, takes a huge drink, ignoring the acrid taste and the burn in her eyes. She toes off her socks and the cold air hits the bottom of her feet, almost daring to bring her back to reality; the reality that something’s on the verge of changing here. Abbie being Abbie, however, ignores it all.

“Shut up and deal the next hand, Crane.”

 

______

 

An hour later and Abbie’s confidence is blazing. She’s about ten percent sure it’s because she’s positive she’s found Ichabod’s tells, twenty percent sure that it’s because her competitive nature won’t allow her to feel otherwise and seventy percent sure that it’s all due to the two more glasses of whiskey she’s had since.

Her bare feet are tucked beneath her legs, toes curled as she studies her cards. She’s lost only few things since her shoes: socks and jacket. Ichabod, however, seems to be faring a bit worse. He’s lost his ribbon for his hair, wool socks, jacket and shirt.

Abbie’s eyes appraise her hand and she feels her confidence begin to waver. Three Queens are nice to see, but not with what’s at risk. Her eyes drift over to Ichabod and she finds herself raking them up and down his form. His shirt gone, Ichabod Crane is a well toned man. She can see the build of muscle beneath smooth skin. Her eyes find the raised scar, just off center of his chest and her fingers itch to reach out and touch it.

She swallows a groan at that idea. She needs to focus. Crane’s on the last few scraps of clothes and if she continues to win…

But she knows what’s on the line if she doesn’t win. She’s only got a handful of items left to lose, and nothing small anymore.

“Show your hand, Crane.”

Her eyes blur when she sees his cards. She blinks and then blinks some more until the colors and suits melt together.

“I believe that would be —”

“A full house,” Abbie laughs though it’s a little bit more of a giggle; a ‘I can’t believe this assface got a full house. Assface.’ giggle.

She pushes her cards away from her and stands without grace. Well it looks like the shirt is next to go after all.

“This was the stupidest… idea…. ever….” Abbie mumbles more to herself than anything, voice muffled by her shirt being pulled over her head. She tosses it to the side without ceremony.

If Ichabod’s adams apple bobs a little harder than usual, Abbie doesn’t see. If his fingers grip the deck of cards so tight that they manage to turn his fingertips white, Abbie chooses to not notice. And if there are butterflies in Abbie’s stomach, or her skin becomes warm and flush because of the look in his eyes as he looks at her, well, Abbie chooses to ignore it.

**

She thinks about calling it off. It was a stupid idea anyway; something born out of a silly comment after a few cups of some of Irish’s Finest.

Ichabod’s curiosity seemed genuinely interested after her suggestions on how poker could be played and so Abbie being Abbie, drank a little more until it sounded like the most harmless idea ever and now she finds herself staring at his chest, wanting more.

**

By the time her jeans come off, she’s sobering up.

She’s nervous, embarrassed and a little bit anxious when it comes time to unbutton her pants. She hesitates for a moment, hoping (sorta but not really) that the gentleman in Ichabod will come forward and give her a pass.

He doesn’t.

Instead Ichabod’s reclined back against his chair, cheeks flushed and somehow managing to look like sexy Jesus and Abbie’s resisting the urge to disappear in her skin.

Her fingers fumble with the buttons of her pants and she shakes it off. He’s seen her in her bra, panties shouldn’t be any different.

“Lieutenant,” Ichabod’s voice breaks through her concentration on her pants with one smooth slice. “Perhaps we should just call it a night.”

Abbie’s almost tempted on agreeing. Almost. Instead, she squares her shoulders, finds her resolve and accepts the fact that she lost.

Fair and Square.

She moves in front of him because if he’s going to be so damn ruthless in a game of cards, the least he can do is help her with her stupid buttons. So she grabs his hands and places them on the front of her jeans.

Ichabod’s still and quiet, an unmoving statue, when she does that. Then, wordlessly, he begins to move his fingers, sliding the first button through the loop and then the second, before his hands fall back down to his sides.

Abbie shimmies out of her pants with as much grace as she can muster. She watches him, as his eyes track each and every movement and she quells the feeling of triumph.

In this moment, Ichabod Crane wants her as much as she wants him.

**

She doesn’t know how it happened.

One minute she’s in front of him, gauging his reaction and the next…

The next his hands are on her waist, pulling her down and onto him.

She straddles his hips, her own pressing down onto him, into him, until they’re moving against him, easing the ache and the friction building between her legs. She wants so much more, her pace increasing with need. Ichabod seems to sense her distress, his own hips meet hers in answering thrusts. One hand grips the back of her neck and the other slides down her back, trailing a fire so hot against her skin, she swears her blood is boiling.

Abbie wants his fingers gripping her sides, pulling her against him again and again and again until his fingers are digging into her skin. She wants this and so much more; wants to wrap her legs around him until he’s pressed against her tightly; wants him buried inside her.

Her own hands find themselves moving between them until they rest on the falls of his trousers and suddenly they’re moving with a deftness and quickness she’d never known she was capable of.

Ichabod’s lips are pressed against her, whispers of touches really, moving from the bend of her neck to the curve of her shoulder.

Her newly skilled fingers find their way into his trousers and she grips him tightly in her palm.

Ichabod hisses against her shoulder. He presses one kiss and then another to the skin there before his lips are back by her ear, licking, biting, kissing; small puffs of breath hitting the shell of her ear.

“We can’t.”

The words are a struggle for him, she knows this. She kisses him once before tugging his bottom lip with her teeth and gives him a small smile in answer, “I know.” She says soothingly. “But there are other things.”

He seems to understand what she means when she grips him tighter in her palm, giving him two gentle tugs.

His own fingers, so long and talented, ease their grip from the back of her neck and move down to between her legs, just over the material of her panties. She wants to push herself into them, wants to beg, cry and whimper, so she does, but not before running her thumb over the head of his cock and giving him a few more firm tugs.

His fingers push past the material of her panties and run across her before he dips one inside of her, his thumb circling her clit.

Abbie’s knees are pressed against his sides and they still manage to quake. They move in unison now, she stroking him with determination and Ichabod adding another finger inside of her, all while continuing to rub her at a measuring pace.

The pit of her belly is heavy and in knots. She moves against his fingers harder and faster, hand gripping him tightly, a silent plea for him to come with her.

“Abbie…” Ichabod’s mouth grazes hers and she knows.

He’s bucking against her hand and his own hand is gripping her side tighter now. He curves his fingers inside of her just so, and Abbie stiffens before shattering into a million pieces.

She knows that it’s going to be different between them now. 

She sags against him, her hold against him loosening and cheek pressing against his chest. She can hear the beats of his heart against her ear.

It _is_ different now.

The thrum of the whiskey burned off long ago and is now replaced with another feeling; something light and knowing.

She presses closer to him, and Ichabod leans a bit and presses his lips against her hair, his heartbeat a soothing gallop of sound that makes her body tingle straight down to her toes, she realizes that though things may change between them, she can’t bring herself to really mind.


End file.
